Jim Gorman's Brand/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
Gorman had made his plans. It was not going to be an easy matter to arrest King Bradey, Moore, and Dave Lorton. He did not contemplate arresting the whole outfit. Bradey could muster at least fifty riders. Jarrett’s steers had to be returned after they had been discovered rebranded on the B-in-a-box holding, with whatever other evidence they could find. Also the few that belonged to Mrs. Jordan. Some of the steers were of Bradey’s own raising. If these could be segregated in any way they would represent the interest of Mary White, which the sheriff intended to try and protect. There would be the claims of the ranchers from the neighboring State to be taken up eventually.
Bradey, thinking his depredations thoroughly covered, would not tamely submit to judgment. He would realize that it meant the unmasking of all his operations and he would fight, at first with force and then through the courts, if he could bring his influence to bear. The last possibility did not bother Gorman. He would have evidence that would be overwhelming, aside from the raid on the Jordan place. Bradey, indicted for stealing cattle, perhaps for complicity in a murder, would find his influence melting like snow under the sun.
Gorman busied himself at the telephone, calling up ranch after ranch. At a few he got in touch with the owners, at each he left urgent messages to be delivered to them at the earliest moment. All knew him personally, and his reputation. They knew that he would not summon them lightly and the word rustlers brought them into swift action.
This was a matter for horses and Gorman saddled the black mare. He had made a rendezvous for two o’clock at a spot midway between Vacada and the Two-Bar. He himself was there ahead of time and soon small bands began to arrive. In most cases these consisted of owners, their foremen and two or three riders, all with their cartridge belts girded about them, ready for fight. A few brought rifles in saddle sheaths.
At a few minutes after two there was no more dust in sight. And there were no absentees. Gorman harangued them briefly. He told them of Moore’s activity in the neighboring State, of his connection with Bradey and the running off of Jarrett’s steers. Also the graver matter of Sam Jordan. And he sketched lightly the position of Bradey’s ward. They listened soberly. The eldest of them, proprietor of the X-bar-X, a man whose hair was gray though his body and mind were still vigorous, glancing at the others, made himself their spokesman.
“We know you wouldn’t bring us out on a fool’s errand, Gorman,” he said, “and I don’t doubt but that you’ll make out a case, but the one thing you’ve got is the theft of these steers. If they were taken last night and blanket-branded, with an easy change from Two-Bar to Lazy H, how are you goin’ to prove up on 'em? Jarrett may be willin’ to swear to ’em, but that sort of identification don’t go in court. It can be all balled up by a good examinin’ lawyer.”
“If you all’ll go with me to locate the steers, I’ll guarantee the identification,” said Gorman. “I’m stakin’ my word an’ reputation it’ll be satisfactory to all of you. I’m figgerin’ they’ll have ’em tucked away for a few days, but we don’t want to run enny chance of havin’ ’em mixed with his main herd. It ’ud take some time then, mebbe, to pick ’em out, if they were with other Lazy H’s, but we cud do it even then. I’ve got the goods with me, in my slicker. If you-all will take my word for it, it’ll save a heap of time an’ I might waste a lot of it persuadin’ you away from the steers. I guarantee the identification. I’m swearin’ you all in as voluntary deputies.”
“That goes,” said the speaker. “I’m willin’ to ride blind on yore say-so, Gorman, an’ I reckon the others will. You’ve got this county clean an’ most of us have got you to thank for savin’ us cattle an’ money. We aim to keep it clean an’ if Bradey’s bin runnin’ a rankyboo on us, he goes. It’s the steers we’re after.”
The rest gathered round Gorman, lifting their right hands as he swore them in. Then they started for the Two-Bar, the hoofs of the horses thudding softly as they loped through sage and mesquite for the highlands, quiet and determined, in a cloud of alkali.
A clever brand-fakir, using a damp blanket through which to brand, can produce a mark on the animal’s hide that so closely approximates the healed-over scars of the original branding that it cannot be positively detected.
This was in the minds of all of them as they rode, but they had implicit confidence in Gorman, heading the bunch with the old rancher who had accepted his judgment and who rode as young as any of them, his face set as he brooded over what he had been told. Now and then he addressed a short question to the sheriff, but he made no further reference to the matter of identification, puzzled though he was beyond his experience.
Gorman had deferred his explanation not merely to save time, but because he realized that these were men used to old-time methods and that, without actual demonstration, many of them would treat his new method with ridicule and jesting argument. That was not the mood in which he wanted to lead them.
They found Jarrett at the Two-Bar gate. His five riders were with him. If he felt any surprise at the cavalcade he gave no sign, but greeted them cordially. Nor did he show any signs of the occasional doubts that had assailed him as to the recovery of the cattle. He had put up a big stake, but he was playing for a bigger one. With Bradey ready to ruin him to prevent his marriage with Mary White and to get even for his interference in the Jordan raid, with a scamp like Moore living at the B-in-a-box, it did not need a lover’s intuition to suggest the danger to the girl, which would be ended by this day’s work.
“I’ve found where the wire was cut,” he said. “Didn’t suppose you’d object to that, Gorman. And it’ll save some time.”
“All right. Show it to us, Bud.”
They reached the severed wire and Gorman halted them on the Two-Bar side of it. He ran his eyes over the crowd of thirty-three men and picked out four he knew had ability to read sign as he could. It was already plain in the gap for an expert, crushed grass and sage and the prints of cattle and of horses.
“They’ll run ’em over rock, sooner or later,” he said. “We’ll have to fan out. This was the old T-on-T. North is the Circle D. Any of you know the lay of the land?”
Three men spoke up and they held a consultation, drawing little maps in the soft dirt as they talked.
“Both those ranch houses are closed up,” said one of them. “Bradey keeps some men over to the Lazy H quarters with a cook. The rest eat an’ bunk to B-in-a-box.”
“Circle D house an’ corrals are in Stone Cañon,” said Gorman, who was familiar with the country though he had not ridden it for some time and was always willing to use the knowledge of others. “Seems likely Dave ’ud put ’em in a corral. But we’ll foller sign.”
For a while they had no trouble, but the trail curved off to reach a wide stretch of outcrop on which the hooves had left no mark. Yet here and there first one and then another “cut” the sign. A fragment of rock recently shaled off, cattle droppings once and horse droppings again, the burned end of a match, once the butt of a cigarette caught in a projection of the rock, the fragment of burned paper still fluttering.
“Ought to have had more sense than to smoke,” said Gorman with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Try the draw to the right, two of you, I’ll tackle the one ahead.”
Time and again, with infinite perseverance, they regained the trail, though much ingenuity had been used in the attempt to cover it. But the rustlers had worked at night when they could not see what sign they might be leaving for trained and vigilant observers. At last they topped a ridge and looked over the range of the old Circle D. Five miles away showed the mouth of the cañon where the ranch headquarters had been deserted. The buildings and corral were hidden. A stream ran out of it, twisting toward them over fairly level terrain, known as a park.
The sign was clear. They stopped for a moment to breathe their horses. Gorman, scanning the country, caught sight of a horseman appearing for a moment as he crossed a crest.
“They’ve spotted us,” he said. “First time, I imagine, or he wudn’t have taken a chance of showin’ himself. There may be more, or he may have bin left on guard. If the steers are there, they can’t move ’em. But he may be cuttin’ to B-in-a-box for help. They know what we’re after. Better tighten cinches. I may not have time to make that proof to you all. I take it you’re still acceptin' my word fo’ it. Jarrett, you want to drive ’em back with yore men if we run inter trubble?”
“No,” said Jarrett shortly. “I want to know the steers are there an’ that we’ve got the goods on Bradey. Then I’m goin’ on to the B-in-a-box.”
“I understand, Bud,” said Gorman. Jarrett meant the girl. “Who’ll do that for Jarrett? You, Hayes?”
“Why pick on me?” drawled Hayes, leaner by far than Gorman, his long legs almost ludicrous in comparison to the pony he rode. “Don’t I git none of the fun?”
“You may git more’n the rest of us,” said Gorman. “We’ll try an’ git you away clear. Will you do it? Bueno! This ain’t goin’ to be a picnic, gents. Better tighten up yore cinches an’ then we’ll ride like hell.”
There was something ominous about the band of horsemen streaming over the plain in silence, racing at top speed, the bellies of their horses brushing the grass tops. They spread out, expectant that any moment might see the issuance of a bunch of steers escorted by the riders of B-in-a-box, prepared for battle. That anticipation faded as they rapidly neared the opening of the cañon, wide at the entrance, but narrowing and curving like a boomerang. It was a grim sight for any guards and watchers of Bradey to note the swift approach. No man called or shouted, each sat clamped to his saddle, reins in one hand, gun in the other. Gorman’s reins were on his horn, the black mare guided by his knees and there was a weapon in each hand.
He entered the cañon a little ahead of the rest. It was shady from the slowly westering sun. There came the zip of a high powered bullet, sent from the right and above, burying itself with a spurt of dust in the ground. Either a warning or a shot fired in the hope of picking off the leader.
Necessarily they closed in as the ravine narrowed. At a second shot a man swayed in the saddle. The missile had struck the horn and richocheted from the steel core to plough through the thigh, above the bone.
“I kin still ride,” he said. “I’ll make a turniquet in a minnit. But I’ll git that sneakin’ sniper.”
Rifles were slid from their sheaths by those who carried them as they swept on. The buildings came into sight, then the corrals. They could see movement of cattle through the high bars. No more shots came. The sniper had been left out of range, or he waited for reinforcements.
“There they are,” said Jarrett. “Mine fo’ a million! The number’s O. K.,” he said as the gate was opened.
The steers were uneasy. In a corner of the corral smoke rose from a little pile of ashes.
“Dave’s brandin’-fire,” said Gorman.
“Hard thing to swear to Herefords,” said Jarrett, “but Gorman’s turned that trick. Look at the brandin’. All Lazy H’s an’ damned smart work, if it is on my own steers.”
“It was hard to differentiate between the cleverly added stem between the two bars of Jarrett’s brand, done with a running iron forged for the occasion; dulled marks that in a day or two would be absolutely indistinguishable from the real thing. One of the men found a fragment of scorched blanketing that had been thrown into the fire, but saved by a twist of wind.
The man shot through the leg, a ranch owner, had slipped off quietly with one of his men. Both carried rifles. He had bandaged his leg roughly and his face showed a grim determination to get even. He was the most famous deer hunter in the county, and, when Gorman missed him he fancied that the sharp shooter was going to regret his marksmanship.
The steers were rounded up, the bit of blanket preserved by Gorman. Hayes took charge of the cattle with his men and the rest formed an escort to see them safely across the plain and down a draw that might favor an ambuscade. Past that in safety they had a fair chance of getting through without trouble. But the steers went slowly, herded securely enough by so many men, and beyond doubt men were racing from the Lazy H by short cuts, already on the way, and others coming from the farther B-in-a-box. Bradey would fight to prove his honesty, though he must soon know that the countryside had joined against him.
What Gorman did not know was that Bradey had received a telephone from the commissioner, a short and guarded message before he went to his train.
“There’s trouble, King, about a man you’ve got by the name of Moore. News came from the next State and things are stirring. This is the best I can do for you, King, you’ll have to dry your own fish.”
So that Bradey and Moore, were not unprepared for the news brought them by a galloping messenger on a foundered horse. Later by phone from the quarters at Lazy H.
“Is Lorton there?” Bradey asked, in answer to the second message, troubled by the first, though he did not show it. The brand-doctor came to the phone.
“Get through with your job?” asked Bradey.
“Yep. But they’ve smelled a rat. There’s hell to”
Bradey shut him off. He went outside on the veranda to Moore. He had already told the foreman of the commissioner’s friendly but limited tip.
“The branding’s finished,” he said. “They can’t prove a damned thing if Dave’s done a good job. We’ll make ’em smart for this. Jump ’em. Now’s the chance for you to even up your scores, Moore. Wipe out that damned sheriff while they’re on our land.”
“The jig’s up,” said Moore. “Or it’s spilled enough not to keep on dancin’, ennyway. I say clear.” He took a long drink from the handy bottle.
“Cut that stuff,” said Bradey. “What do you mean to do? Quit? Leave the stock an’ run, you damned coward?”
“I’m no coward,” said Moore. “But I’m not a fool. You kin stay if you want to. Take yore ha’f out in the stock if you’re so blamed sure of holdin’ them. I’m goin’ to take what you’ve got in yore safe an’ a check fo’ the rest. I’ll chance yore stoppin’ the check. I’ve got what was in my bank. I’m goin’ with the boys to git a crack at that sheriff an’ then I’m goin’ to start out on my own. More’n that, I’m takin’ the gal.”
Above them Mary White listened from her open window. She slipped back and hurried, but softly went down the stairs. She had on her riding things. At the foot of the stairs she met Pedro. His greasy face wore a half smile. The two men could be heard quarreling on the veranda and Pedro had gleaned his own information and made up his mind as to his procedure. He was a believer in the star of King Bradey, but he inclined, in his greaser way, toward the decision of Moore.
“Where you go?” he asked.
He stood in front of her and she struck him fiercely with her quirt and ran out. Pedro went through the house to the veranda.
“Double crossin’ me, were you?” demanded Moore fiercely. “Stallin’ me erlong? Don’t forgit what I can pass across to let you in deeper than a bogged cow!”
Bradey grasped the bottle that was on the small table where they had been sitting before the telephone rang. Moore’s hand dropped to his gun as Pedro appeared.
“Mary, she go,” said the cook.
Moore exploded an oath and leaped the porch rail. Bradey had no gun with him and he went inside for one. Moore ran for his horse, standing saddled, as the girl, low in her saddle, quirting her pinto pony, sped between two buildings. Moore vaulted to the saddle and raced in pursuit as Bradey came out. There was no horse up for him. He seldom rode and he was not a good horseman. He stood impotent, the pair already out of sight. He was between two fires.
Not for the first time he regretted his partnership with Moore. Not for the first time had Moore threatened to (illegible text) on him and it was while he devised means of checking him that he permitted him to think he would consent to his capture of Mary White.
Bradey had not much soul that was not numb with selfishness, but what there was left of it that was decent rose against such a mating. But he had his hand in a dog’s mouth and a bite was fatal.
Now indeed it looked as if the jig was up, but he had to make a fight of it, rally his friends, ward off trial until he could escape, leaving bail behind if he had to. Moore might split. He had a fair share of the spoils in hand, all he would get.
Bradey set up a clamor on the wagon tire that summoned the men, and, as they came in, those of them who were not out on various duties, he chose two of his own and despatched them after Moore and the girl.
“Get him,” he said savagely, taking them apart. If she don’t want to come back, let her go,” he added wearily. It looked as if the jig was up, but he was a fighter for his own, illicitly gathered or not. He supposed the girl would go to Jarrett. And he had no time now for Jarrett.
The two men started away. Bradey turned toward the others.
“Gorman, Jarrett, and some sort of posse are taking away those steers in the Circle D corral,” he said briefly. “The boys there are after them, but they’re in force. Hop to it.”
In five minutes the place was clear of them. They imagined the two already despatched were on some special errand and they rode hard toward the Circle D, tangenting to cut off the posse, keen enough for a fight, realizing that their own liberties might be in danger, but sure of Bradey’s judgment.
Bradey went heavily into the house, taking with him the whisky from the porch. He drank a full glass of it and it warmed him and stirred him out of a sluggishness that had invested him. He started taking papers from his safe, destroying some of them, putting the rest back and closing the steel box. Then he busied himself with long-disstance calls.
Mary White, looking back, saw Moore in pursuit. Her mount was fresh and fast and she rode well. Instinctively she made for the Two-Bar. It would be dark before she reached there, and, if they had not returned, she might lose Moore in the hills. At the last she had her automatic.
And Moore settled down in his saddle, determined to reach her, to take his will of her, to force her to go with him, or, perhaps, to leave her. Possess her he would. The man was instinct with evil. He cast aside his revenge on the sheriff—he was done with sheriffs—not with Jarrett. With the latter he was resolved to have a devilish accounting through the girl.
Then he would ride on, down to Mexico. From there he would send in information enough to the authorities to put Bradey behind the bars. He had enough money on him with which to enjoy life until he wanted to start in afresh, marauding along the line.
Behind him followed the two riders from B-in-a-box. They were well mounted and they picked up the trail, then lost it. They rode to the top of a hogback, but the twisting contours the hills hid the pursued. One of them threw his leg across the saddle and rolled a cigarette.
“Old man seemed riled,” he said. “Sorter worried, at that.”
“Sure did. Had a row with Moore.”
“Wanted us to git him. Al, if they’ve split, there’s goin’ to be a bust up. He drawed our money three days ago. I’ve got an itch to drift away from here. If Gorman’s out, there’s goin’ to be big trubble. It don’t look good to me. I’ve got most of my pay. How erbout you?”
“Most of it. Won some at poker last night. You’ve got a long head on you. Me, I’m not achin’ to git rounded up by Gorman. We’re all in it.”
“Not so deep as Dave. He was with Moore when they got Jordan. An’ Jake.”
“Gorman’ll attend to Dave Lorton. They’ve got Jake.”
“I reckon so. Let’s make the Old Man a present of three day’s pay. I got a hunch we wudn’t ever git it. What do you say, Al, shall we drift?”
“Let’s go north. They won’t bother erbout us none if we ain’t on the spot. I know where they’ll take us on. At the I X L. Allus lookin’ for hands round this time o’ year.”
Through the twilight they drifted north. Once they heard the faint sound of firing and grinned at each other. That they had left the rest of the outfit at war with the law was little to them. There are some kinds of rats that are always first up the gangway and the first to go down. They showed a species of wisdom. And the I X L was a ranch where men worked hard for their money.